Wicked
Evelyn Claire, Charles Dera Pic(s)
The key turned with a hushed finality, the bolt sliding home to seal away the world of polite smiles and public propriety. ide, the air was thick with the scent of her other perfume, something dark and musky that clung to the velvet drapes. She let the silk blouse, still carrying the chill of the evening air, slip from her shoulders to pool on the floor like a discarded ghost. His hands, familiar yet thrillingly foreign in this clandestine space, found the small of her back, his palms radiating a heat that seeped through the thin fabric of her chemise. A low murmur escaped her lips, not a word but a sound of pure surrender, as his mouth traced a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive curve of her neck. Each kiss was a brand, a promise of the secret life that pulsed just beneath her skin, a life of untamed hunger and whispered confessions in the dark. The weight of him pressed her into the mattress, a delicious anchor as his fingers learned the secret geography of her body, mapping territories unknown to the daylight. The only light came from a single candle, its flame dancing wildly in the draft, casting long, writhing shadows that mimicked their entangled forms on the walls. In that flickering half-light, every touch was amplified, every sigh a symphony, as she willingly drowned in the delicious, duplicitous truth of her own desire.
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